Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 88: Head Game

[game_byrd]

Title: Head Game
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Words: 6,300
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mild abusive behavior and messed-up thought patterns.
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter blows Sylar's mind. Sylar returns the favor. POV shift to Peter in the middle.


Sex with Elle had not come out of left field. Sylar had been considering the differences between her and Peter. Intimacy with Elle had been the result of a relationship, consisting of many shared adventures and the development of trust. By the time he'd seized and taken her in the Canfield's deserted home, she'd already accepted him. With that in mind, Sylar had begun trying something new - touching Peter, frequently, and as familiarly as Peter would allow. As it turned out, that was much more familiar than Sylar had expected. At the moment, Peter was skimming through sheet music, his guitar next to him on the couch. Sylar touched his shoulder, pinching up the fabric to rub it briefly between his fingertips. Peter ignored him.

Sylar, standing next to the end of the couch where Peter was sitting, hitched up his hip to sit on the arm of the furniture and turned his hand so he could smooth his thumb across the side of Peter's neck. Bare, warm skin. It was human and real. It anchored him - a tiny, fleeting connection. Instead of batting him away as he'd expected, Peter sighed and let his head loll back as his heavy-lidded eyes tracked over to Sylar.

Oh? All that neck, bared to him, vulnerable and so clearly offered. Ohhh … He must be in the mood for something. Sylar turned his hand to stroke the side of Peter's neck with his knuckles, then cupped it over his windpipe. Peter drew in air with the motion, nostrils flaring slightly. He blew it out. His eyes shut completely as Sylar caressed him. Peter's Adam's apple was a hard knot under Sylar's palm. He pressed on it slightly. Peter's lips parted. Oh, wow. Sylar was moved, immediately and spontaneously. He got up and turned, leaning over Peter swiftly to press his mouth over that naked throat, his teeth menacing the delicate skin. Under his lips, he felt Peter growl. The next moment, Peter twined a hand into Sylar's hair, gripped tight, and pulled him off. He was pushed away.

The expression on Peter's face was almost disgusted. Yet it seemed … overdone. Sylar studied him as he straightened. Disgust was the polar opposite of attraction, but there was no way he'd misread Peter's receptivity. Just to test it, he reached out, saying, "Here, let me wipe that off for you." Peter gave Sylar's hand the same half-snarling look of disapproval, but he didn't stop it from touching the saliva-wet spot on his neck where Sylar's mouth had been. Sylar didn't wipe. He smeared. He was certain Peter could tell the difference. Peter's eyes were fixed on his with a smoldering look that was totally new. Sylar dared not look away. Dilated pupils, the analytical part of his brain registered.

He lifted his hand, paused, and then touched his damp fingers to Peter's lips with the intention of sliding them across if it was allowed. He didn't think it would be. This had already gone way, way beyond what Peter had permitted before. To his shock, Peter opened his mouth and sucked in those two moist fingers. A twitch ran through Sylar. Even when he was completely surprised, he hardly ever moved. Stillness was the default, but this startled him so much as to throw all normal reactions out the window. There was warmth - soft, wet warmth encasing his fingers, followed a moment later by Peter positioning them with his tongue and biting the fingertips. Sylar's mouth dropped open. He was sure he looked like an idiot. He huffed out a surprised breath and his lids flickered as Peter sucked the fingers in deeper again, fondling them with his tongue.

Oh … oh … Oh my God, that's so filthy … and perverted. So deeply, deeply perverted. The things he'd done with those fingers - even Peter knew enough of what he'd done that he'd be more justified to bite them off than this … this … whatever Peter was doing. He's blowing my fingers. Oh my God, he's fellating my fingers! Sylar twitched them slightly, barely daring to breathe. I could get off from this, that other, dispassionate corner of his mind mentioned. Peter rolled the fingers to one side of his mouth where he rubbed them over and against his molars, before going back to the soft middle, cradled by the roll of his tongue. Then he sucked hard for a moment.

The whole time, Peter had been staring at him with only the briefest breaks to blink and apparently savor what he was doing. Sylar smiled haltingly and huffed out something like a chuckle. He might have spoken, but Peter interrupted by reaching for Sylar's groin. It was right on a level with him. The erection there had been largely unnoticed. Peter's fingers found it without ever looking. He rubbed and that first pressure made Sylar whimper involuntarily. I am not going to cream my pants, he told himself firmly. Not over so little.

But it wasn't so little. Peter ejected the fingers from his mouth, sat up, and abruptly put his face to Sylar's crotch, rubbing it back and forth in a slow, luxuriating motion over the hard ridge of his erection. It was very sensual. His dick went from mostly hard to rock solid. His hands clutched at Peter's hair, combing through it with rapid petting motions. He could near Peter inhaling against him. So fucking dirty! And then feel the heat of his breath steaming through the denim of his jeans and cotton of his underwear. "Ahh," Sylar groaned softly.

He felt something sharp and looked down to see Peter was mouthing the cylindrical bulge of his penis, biting at it through the cloth. I'm going to … No, no, please no. Don't. He pulled Peter back, seeing the darker splotch of Peter's drool marking his erection. Peter licked his lips and reached up to pick open the top button of Sylar's fly. He … What? He mouthed, No … Sylar had no idea how serious Peter was or wasn't.

Sylar's brain felt like it was shorting out. Peter leaned back a bit to look up at him with a sultry, mischievous smile on his luscious, reddened lips. That was when the explanation hit Sylar like a blow: It's a joke. He's … teasing. Joking. Showing me what I can never have. Despair flooded through him, more horrible and wrenching than for many things in his life that he would have objectively judged worse. So someone wasn't going to blow him. Big deal, right? But he'd been so close. And it had been Peter. And there was everything that might mean if Peter were willing to touch him like that! Then there was the betrayal to deal with. Peter had been friendly to him for days now, even weeks. Had it all been leading up to a foul trick?

Then Peter laughed and gave a tug at one of Sylar's belt loops that he had hooked a finger through. "Come on," Peter said.

Sylar's voice caught in his throat. With difficulty, he coughed out, "Don't fuck with me!" He couldn't tell if he sounded outraged or terrified, aggressive or weak.

Peter's expression sobered. He kept watching Sylar's face as the hand on Sylar's belt loop abandoned its position to snake around and stroke his ass. "Fucking wasn't what I had in mind."

It … what? Sylar blinked at him, struggling. The touch on his rear end had immediately proposed another option - perhaps Peter was suggesting he fellate Sylar in exchange for a turn at his ass. If that was the deal, Sylar would agree. But then Peter's words - fucking wasn't what he had in mind?

"You're fucking with me," Sylar growled with hurt. He was cycling through emotions hard and fast.

"No," Peter said softly, almost a croon. "I'm not." His fingers found Sylar's crack and worked their way up and down the seam. Sylar resisted the urge to spread for him - not until he knew what the deal was. Which was kind of ridiculous, as he was perfectly willing to give up the goods. He just didn't know what was going on. Peter's other hand explored the top of his jeans, toying with the unfastened button. "I'll bet you have a beautiful cock." Fingers trailed down to tease the shaft.

Sylar quivered. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

"I happen to enjoy giving head," Peter said, now lightly pinching the head between thumb and index finger.

"That's impossible!" Sylar spat out before he could consider it. Oral sex was never provided willingly except in exchange for financial remuneration, or under the emotional extortion of a relationship - 'suck me or I'll break up with you', 'suck me or I won't give you any money to buy that thing you want'. That was why it was so popular in porn - it was a clear marker of subservience and domination. It was an ego stroke to force someone else to do it. The idea that someone would want to do it of their own free will? Impossible.

Peter's hands lifted from him. His expression soured. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Oh. Crap. That was something Peter took special exception to and Sylar knew it. He swallowed. "No. I just …" Sylar gestured at his crotch. The whole thing was inexplicable. He rubbed at his engorged organ. All I was doing was touching your neck, he whined inside at how carried away this had become. He felt boxed in a corner. I'll be good. I can be good. Good boys get rewards, right? Not that he'd ever been given much of a reward, but that was what he'd always been told. "You like it?"

"I like it." Peter gave a single, determined nod. He touched Sylar's top button again and that was all he touched. "Do you?"

OH! A new possibility ran through Sylar's head. Peter had stopped progressing when Sylar had pulled him away and lipped, 'No.' Obviously, it had been seen. It had been seen and was being … respected. Almost. Sort of. Peter was still molesting him, but he'd otherwise stopped. He needs my permission. He's asking for it. None of it made any sense, why Peter would want to suck him off at all, but that was a mystery Sylar was content to explore after the sex act was complete. "Yes."

Swallowing down his doubts, Sylar stepped directly in front of Peter, trapping him on the couch with his knees on either side of Peter's. He unzipped his fly and pushed down his jeans. Peter's hands stroked over his and played with the band of his underwear. He looked completely serious. With a deep breath, Sylar hooked his fingers into the cotton briefs and tugged them down, too. He'd lost some of the raging erection he'd had moments earlier. Tension and fear had taken it out of him. Peter viewing him now didn't help either, even with Peter's rapt expression. Before he lost it entirely, Sylar reached out, grabbed a fistful of Peter's hair, and pulled him to him.

"Hey!" Peter objected, getting a forearm across Sylar's thigh and resisting.

"You said you wanted it." Sylar let go, confused. He felt the edge of anger welling up.

"Not like that!"

Does he want a different position? Sylar strongly considered backhanding Peter just for being a brat. It would be so easy to do.

Peter massaged his scalp, making a big deal out of nothing. "Be nice to me," he ordered.

Sylar frowned. He was entirely flaccid now. He wished he was erect so he could hit Peter and then shove himself down the man's throat. That's what he deserved for all this teasing and taunting, all this build-up without delivering. But instead, here he was, impotent. Peter came closer and touched him, sliding a finger along the now-dangling flesh. Sylar snorted and backed off, disgusted that Peter would touch him while he was so soft. It was all too fucked up. He didn't understand it. It didn't make sense. And he wasn't aroused anymore. He yanked up his jeans and fastened them quickly. "Go fuck yourself if you want it so bad," he snarled. He made a fist and raised it. Peter looked between it and Sylar's face, Peter's own suddenly wary and pale. Hitting him would be so satisfying. It would end the fascination his subconscious already had with sticking his dick into Peter's mouth - seeing that opening bleeding and torn would kill his libido. Peter's face hardened. He was going to fight back.

"I'm damaged goods, Peter," Sylar warned. He shook his head, dropped his fist, and stalked out.

"How could you even be willing to do that? It's disgusting!"

It had been more than a week, but Peter still knew exactly what Sylar was talking about. He favored him with a displeased look. "I like doing it."

Sylar shook his head silently.

"How could you be willing to put your dick in my mouth, huh?" Peter mocked. "It's lined with teeth. The mouth is the dirtiest part of the human body. It's full of spit and undigested food particles." Sylar blanched at the graphic description. Peter smiled, his point made. "But, lemme guess - you like doing it?"

Sylar looked away.

"Have you ever had a blow job?"

"Yes," Sylar snapped, "of course I have."

"'Of course', huh?"

"I'm sure you've had hundreds!" Sylar said spitefully.

Peter shrugged and said slowly, "Maybe. I'm sure I've given more than I've gotten. I'm happy about that."

"You're sick."

Peter's eyes emptied of expression. He remembered sitting in front of the TV in the 90s, staring at an old episode of M.A.S.H. without seeing it, listening as his father told Nathan about why gay people couldn't be allowed in the military. They were so sick in the head that they'd spend all their time 'hooting each other's roots' instead of fighting the enemy and thinking about their sweethearts back home. In fact, they weren't even worth protecting as citizens. They were outside the norm, outside society's protection. They were sick, infectious, and contagious. They probably all had AIDS. They needed to be quarantined for the good of society, marked in some way so people could recognize them. The rant had gone on for the rest of the show, while Peter had sat there, slumped on the couch at the age of sixteen, thinking about the cute boy in his garage band that he'd been thinking of saying something to.

He didn't want to hit Sylar. He just wanted to crawl off under a rock and stay there. That old saying that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent? That's bullshit. He got up, gathered his things, and left.

Three weeks was a long time to not hear anyone's voice. It wasn't a patch on three years, but Sylar had spent those years with no one there to ignore him. It was so much worse to know there was someone just down the street who wouldn't talk to him - that he was so repugnant that they would endure the silence just so they weren't interacting with him. And in case that wasn't bad enough, the person who preferred nothingness over him? It was Peter Petrelli, who could barely keep his hands off people and seemed to exist to interact with others. But not with Sylar. No, Sylar had managed to go from seconds away from being a sex partner to being an anathema.

Stalking the avoidant Peter was an exercise in masochism. Sylar knew that, but by the time two weeks was turning into three, he was doing it anyway. Peter didn't flee or hide when he caught sight of Sylar, so it wasn't difficult to do. Sylar was leaning against the side of a brownstone building, watching Peter read comic books in a little strip of park next to the slow-moving river that bounded one side of the city. His stomach rumbled and he sighed. Soon, he'd have to give up his observation to seek out sustenance. When he got back, Peter might be gone. He frowned about that. Usually, he stayed as long as he could, but just then a plan hatched in his mind.

Fifteen minutes later, he was hurrying back to the park. To his relief, Peter was still there, enjoying the partly cloudy day under the dappled shade of a tall, otherwise nondescript tree. Carrying the grocery bag, Sylar walked up to him. It clinked when he set it down on the bench next to Peter, who gave him a scathing look for interrupting and coming so close. Sylar ignored that, sitting cross-legged on the grass, hands curled over his knees. Sylar inclined his head towards the sack. "That's for you."

Peter glared at him, then went back to the copy of Doctor Strange that he was reading. Sylar swallowed and looked away, watching the river roll by. Minutes passed and pages turned. The sound of another human presence was nice. So was the fact that Peter hadn't left. He looked back when Peter put aside the finished comic. Peter looked in the paper bag, then at Sylar. Sylar blurted, "You like that brand of soda, right? It's the one with cane sugar."

From his face, Peter was very clearly still pissed. Seventeen days later, and he was still angry. He really knew how to nurse a grudge. Though that probably had more to do with their past than anything about Peter particularly. It was amazing, really, that Peter hadn't come here to murder him, nor succumbed to the temptation that no doubt arose when they argued. It was downright mind-blowing that Peter tolerated his touch and had made what Sylar had decided was a completely serious offer to sexually service him. But maybe Peter was done being mad now, because he reached into the bag and pulled out a glass soda bottle, regarded the label proclaiming it to be orange and cream, then picked up the corner of his shirt to cushion his palm as he opened the cap. He sipped it and nodded approvingly.

Sylar stood up, hurrying over. Peter moved away from him along the bench, pushing over his comics to get away. Sylar pulled out the second bottle (for himself - crushed melon flavor, a certain irony there) and then a plastic bag of green grapes along with a second plastic bag of cheddar cheese cubes. "You said you liked cheese and grapes. I remember." Sylar offered them. If he was hungry, then Peter had to be as well. He'd tried food offerings in the past, but only the suggestion of and invitation for them and never putting the food directly in front of Peter. This was harder to turn down this way. After a sigh, Peter took the packages from him and set them down on the bench. He didn't eat. That was a bad sign. Sylar swallowed uncomfortably and mentally vetoed his plan to move the sack and sit where it had been. He pulled out an apple for himself and returned to the grass, this time in front of where Peter sat. He was in range to be kicked, should Peter think that was appropriate.

Peter regarded him steadily, then rearranged his comic books into a single stack. Sylar looked down and rotated the apple, rubbing it slowly against his jeans. "I was wondering if you could tell me what it's like." Peter slipped the stack into his backpack. Sylar cringed at the impending abandonment. "Please?" Sylar asked.

Peter sighed heavily and leaned back, reaching out with a foot and shoving Sylar's left knee. It was not a kick and Sylar was not hurt by it. If anything, he was heartened by the interaction. Peter grimaced and looked away.

"I'm sorry," Sylar whispered sadly, looking down at the apple he had no appetite for.

"For what?" Peter said dully, then coughed to clear his throat because he hadn't spoken in weeks. Sylar talked to himself enough that he didn't share the same problem.

"For everything," Sylar said, having no idea what, specifically, Peter was looking for. "For making all the bad decisions. They were my fault. I take responsibility." At least, he knew he should take responsibility, but honestly, he didn't really know what that meant. Nathan's memories were no help either. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

"Which was?"

Sylar swallowed again. This was a test he wasn't prepared for. "That you've had a lot of blow jobs …?"

Peter laughed scornfully, rolled his eyes, and opened the bag of grapes. He popped a couple in his mouth and chewed. "Sylar, you have No. Fucking. Clue."

Sylar pursed his lips and was silent. At least Peter was talking to him again. To that, he credited the gift of food and the deliberate choice of a subordinate position, though that had been a near thing.

"What you should be sorry for is telling me I'm fucked up and there's something wrong with me. There's not. And there's nothing wrong with you, either." Peter frowned at him. "'Damaged goods' doesn't get you off the hook. If you're going to take responsibility, you've got to fucking take responsibility!"

Sylar tried to make himself small. He let Peter have his rant. The words were musical in a way. There was a lot of percussion and base in them, thumping and moving, the sounds rolling with passion and dark energy.

"Pay attention to someone other than yourself. Believe me when I say something isn't working for me. Listen!"

Sylar's head snapped up. He'd heard the words, but … well … yeah, he hadn't been listening the way Peter wanted him to listen. "I'm listening."

Peter looked at him suspiciously. "What does it mean - what I've said?"

"When you tell me something, I should believe it," Sylar said, paraphrasing carefully. "When you speak to me, I should listen." There were unpleasant consequences for not doing so. Aside from the silence, Peter would be unhappy, and that was something that had begun to matter more and more to Sylar as he realized Peter had been willing to be with him until he'd fucked it up by … whatever it was he'd done. But he was sure it was genuinely his fault. He'd figured that much out.

"I want to speak with you," Peter said, a little yearning in his voice.

Sylar looked up at him, thinking about how hard the isolation had to be on Peter the empath, and how much of a lowlife he had to be for Peter to turn away the literal last man on earth. He nodded. "We're speaking with each other now."

Peter nodded back, opening the bag of cheese and picking out a couple cubes. Obviously, he'd been hungry. Peter had base needs, just like Sylar. "What is it you wanted me to tell you about?" Peter said sullenly.

Sylar responded, "What it's like to suck cock."

Peter nearly choked on the cheese. Sylar looked very concerned for him, mentally reviewing the process for the Heimlich maneuver, while Peter sputtered and gasped and got himself straightened out. "Um, yeah, kay," Peter said when he could breathe again. "I thought you said that was disgusting."

Sylar tilted his head to one side and back in something of a shrug. Carefully he said, "You said you liked doing it. I believe you."

Peter gave a smaller roll of his eyes and pulled out a grape and a cube of cheese. He judged them in his hand for a moment, then put both in his mouth at the same time. He chewed and swallowed. He was such a strange man. Sylar supposed it was to his benefit that Peter's appetites ran to the special and strange. "Yes," Peter said, "I do like doing it. You like kissing, right?" Sylar nodded. "It's like kissing, but more. More intense. More," Peter gestured at his mouth, "more filling. You have … a dick in your mouth. I know that's obvious, but it's sexy, too, just to have it there. It's … heavy. It's in you. You can taste it, smell it, feel it. It's right in your face. It's overwhelming in a way. You know how a really great kiss can take your breath away?" Sylar nodded slowly, not that he knew what Peter meant. He'd always thought that was an exaggeration. "It's like that. It," Peter gestured at his groin, though there was no obvious erection at the moment, "turns me on."

"It … tastes okay?"

"Tastes fine. Tastes like dick. Assuming it's clean. I mean, you could suck someone's armpit right after a good shower where they cleaned up all over and it would be okay, but I wouldn't want to put my mouth there after they'd had a long day. Same with a blow job - it needs to air out a little before I want it. Maybe use a wet washcloth to get it clean."

"And at the end?"

"Of the blow job?" Sylar nodded. Peter went on, "You can usually tell when someone's going to come. If they're polite, they'll tell you. You keep sucking or you stop and jerk them off. If you keep sucking, then you swallow or spit. Come doesn't taste bad. At least, not normally."

"And … what do you do?"

Peter raised his brows a bit and ate two grapes with a single, larger cube of cheese. "That depends on how I feel about the person."

Sylar nodded slowly, thinking it over. It was filthy and perverted and had given him a hard-on just thinking about it.

"Do you want to try it?"

That caught him off-guard, but it made sense immediately. 'Responsibility.' How better to demonstrate to Peter that Sylar saw nothing wrong with him, or his preferred sex acts, than to do them himself? If he ever wanted the wet dream of Peter sucking him like had almost (almost!) happened before he'd fucked it up, then this was the way to get it. Plus, he didn't want Peter thinking he thought he was the sick freak that Sylar felt he, himself, was. He'd reviewed his words obsessively and come to the conclusion they were poorly chosen and motivated by unhelpful prejudice. He was not the sort of person with the privilege of making such moral distinctions. He didn't know where the idea had even come from that he was - maybe it was some Nathan-esque holdover. He had killed at the direction of Petrellis, with less potential reward and less regard for the feelings of his master. He could do this. Peter might even be nice about it. "Okay." He rose to his knees, dropping his uneaten apple to the side.

"No," Peter said abruptly. "I've been out here all day. If it's your first time, let's … I can clean up."

Peter was definitely going to be nice about it. That was touching. Sylar stroked himself twice through his jeans, mostly to draw attention to it. "I'd rather have you dirty," he purred. He'd rather have it just like it was - the hard truth, the rough practicality of it. He didn't want it cleaned up or sugar-coated. He wanted it to be real. Peter's mouth opened, then shut without a sound. Sylar smiled toothily, deeply pleased to have shocked the more cultured Peter speechless. He knee-walked forward, putting his palms on Peter's knees and spreading them. Peter didn't resist; he just breathed out a surprised laugh.

"Right out here?" Peter practically squeaked.

"Mm-hmm," Sylar rumbled, insinuating himself between Peter's legs. So naughty to be here, for you to let me be here. They'd never been this close. The touching they'd done had been casual so far. The incident where Peter sucked his fingers was as licentious as they'd been. Sylar didn't know if a kiss was appropriate, but he knew he wanted one - and now. He assumed Peter wouldn't provide one after. If he was going to suck the guy's dick, then he wanted to at least get something for himself out of it. He was on his knees; Peter on the bench; their faces were actually on a level. He kissed Peter without permission or reservation. Peter tensed. Clearly this wasn't expected or even very welcome, but that was the story of Sylar's life. He touched one side of Peter's face with his fingertips, trying to make it okay, as his other hand slipped behind Peter's head in case the man tried to refuse him. Truth be told, it was the first time he'd ever kissed a man. He knew it wasn't Peter's first time, but for all the surprise the little Petrelli was showing, it might as well have been.

When Peter didn't pull away immediately, but instead turned his face and tried to kiss back, Sylar let his hands drop, smoothing them over Peter's shoulders and arms, then coming back up along his chest. Sylar sucked at the lips, letting his eyes slide shut. He moaned when Peter's mouth opened and a tongue tickled along his lips. He swiped at Peter's tongue himself. It retreated. His followed. Peter tasted wonderful. The grapes and cheese made a creamy, tangy, sharp-sweet counterpoint, layered and complicated with the citrus fizz of the soda in the background. Behind it all was Peter himself, not too different from his scent. The flavor was stronger, more visceral. It was masculine and robust, clean and smooth, easy on his tongue. He could taste that for hours without getting tired of it, he realized.

Peter sighed in pleasure as the kiss wore on, hands stroking Sylar's sides encouragingly. Peter was an amazingly good kisser, nothing at all like Elle who was all wild enthusiasm or Lydia who was too slow and lost in it for his preference. Peter engaged, led, teased and provoked. He played with his mouth and with Sylar's, all the while his hands caressed and stroked and gripped. It went on and on like neither of them had kissed anyone else in forever.

Peter was the one who broke it off, nuzzling at Sylar's face and dragging his lower lip across Sylar's cheek, his eyes half-closed. He's been starving for this, Sylar thought, wondering if it was cruel that he hadn't been the sort of partner Peter could satisfy himself with easily. Sylar growled. He was as he was. Maybe Peter needed to learn to deal for once. Peter wasdealing - and if his current method included sucking on Sylar's earlobe, Sylar wasn't going to complain. Sylar pushed his hips forward in short, rhythmic motions. His crotch was against the curled edge of the bench. It was just a pressure. He wished he could jerk Peter forward, vaporize both their clothes, and fuck him right here, but that wouldn't be allowed. Peter was behaving, so it was well past time for Sylar to get to business. He gave a hard nip to Peter's neck because he could, and looked down to unfasten the man's jeans. Sylar sank to his haunches as Peter wriggled and positioned himself, eagerly pushing down his jeans and pulling himself out, erect penis and testicles together.

Sylar viewed, and smiled slowly. He remembered what Peter had said to him. "Now that is a beautiful cock." It was a normal length, naturally darker than the rest of Peter's skin and currently flushed with arousal. The head was not fully swollen, but there was still a drop of wetness on it. Short, wiry, sparse pubic hair surrounded it, reminding him of how patchy a younger Peter's attempts to grow a beard had been. Obviously, the hair growth pattern extended to other areas than his face. Sylar inhaled deeply of his scent. It was strong, but not repellant. He couldn't see what Peter was bothering to warn him about - they'd both smelled far worse things. But he made a mental note of how this reflected on Peter's preferences. It would be useful later, he was sure. He leaned closer, his hands on Peter's splayed knees, and breathed in deeply once more.

"Is it okay?" Peter asked, petting the side of Sylar's head.

Sylar turned his head up only enough to roll his eyes upward and see Peter under his brows. His smile broadened. Peter was as insecure and uneasy as Sylar had been almost four weeks ago. He glanced back down, thinking about how he'd feel if Peter balled that fist in his hair and shoved his face at his groin as Sylar had more or less done with Peter. Sylar might not object, but he wouldn't be happy. That, then, seemed to have been his misstep, the thing that had damaged their first, tentative connection. He made a mental note of that, too, intending to never do it again. He had to strengthen those ties, even if it meant behavior modification.

He didn't know how to start, so he just kept leaning in until he was there. Swallowing, he gingerly wrapped his lips around the head. Peter's erection was flagging - again, it was just as Sylar recalled his own had. Nerves. That Peter was nervous calmed Sylar. It meant he could be in control here. He was the one, as Peter had pointed out, with his sharp, dangerous teeth wrapped around Peter's defenseless penis. He touched those teeth to the sensitive flesh. One of Peter's feet shifted in discomfort so Sylar lifted them off his skin and used his pursed lips to hold the cock away from his teeth.

Sylar licked, having heretofore been holding his tongue back and away from contact. Now he tasted. The fluid at the tip had a flavor all its own. It was a bodily fluid and tasted like some distant combination of saliva and blood, without the metallic taste blood always had. It was like serum, or gunk or various less pleasant but pedestrian secretions. He let the tension go out of his body. It wasn't bad, not by itself. The thing that gave him psychological dissonance was putting Peter Petrelli's cock in his mouth - not the sensations themselves. The sensations were pleasant. The filthy perversion he was committing was … well, there was no other way to think about it than the same way he did about anything else that was forbidden and nasty. It was hot. And so, so wrong. His own erection strained against his fly.

Sylar started sucking and bobbing slowly, working out where he could put his tongue and what he could do with it. Peter's moans and breathy gasps were a good guide, as was Peter stroking Sylar's hair and the occasional rises of his hips. Sylar was doing it for him, clearly. That was fantastic. He was being of use. He was wanted. What he could do was of value to Peter. Peter was accepting him, showing his trust, and thoroughly demonstrating it. Peter's hands were buried in his hair, but not holding his head or directing him. The only direction was the occasional grasping he did, tucking his feet up under the bench and whining when he'd shift his hips in a tiny, involuntary thrust.

All this display of arousal was going straight to Sylar's dick. He had a free hand, so he reached down and massaged his groin, his other hand wrapped around the base of Peter's cock to keep it steady. Sylar was slurping messily, drool running down over his fist. There was nothing else for it - keeping one's mouth open over and around something triggered the reaction, which seemed as inescapable as the aching need in his pants.

Sylar pulled back to just the tip, encircling the knob with his generous lips and applying suction. Peter almost came up off the bench. "I'm coming!" Peter blurted out, the first articulate thing he'd said throughout the blow job. One of Peter's hands nudged his head frantically, like Peter hadn't realized until too late what was happening.

Sylar felt a surge in his loins at how much he'd made Peter lose control. This was his chance to show how far he was willing to go, how much he was willing to do, and how giving a partner he would be if Peter elected to continue with him. A few determined sucks later, he felt Peter's seed spilling into his mouth, hot and spurting. He swallowed hard and immediately, hardly tasting it at all. His own hips bucked forward unexpectedly and he nearly gagged himself on Peter's cock as he felt a surge in his loins. His throat worked again reflexively as Peter's second wave of ejaculate threatened to choke him. Tears stood out in his eyes as he unexpectedly came. He swallowed a last time, lifting himself off to breathe in rough, semen-scented gasps.

He glanced over things. There was so much slobber that the crotch of Peter's jeans was soaked like the man had wet himself. Sylar knew he looked just as disgusting with a spreading wet patch to show his shame. That was what they were now - both of them - flagrantly indecent for one another. He sucked in lungfuls of Peter's scent, the smell of his sex and come, wanting to imprint this into his brain - this was his connection. This was his tie. He squeezed Peter's penis and licked the last drop that oozed from it, holding that sticky, pearly drop on his tongue as he looked up at his partner in crime and showed it to him. It was filthy, sick, and nasty. It was also honest, lustful, and for him alone. Sylar swallowed it down.